All I Ask
by Vytina
Summary: "This," he breathes with another kiss to seal his vow, "is forever."


**A/N: I am pleased to present another installment in my Batman Beyond collection, and this may even outrank "As I Am" in my list of literary achievements. I am quite pleased with this piece, and sincerely hope it was well worth an obscenely long wait for my dear friend, Miss Sweetbean. I fully dedicate this to her, and hope it is everything she desired (and more).**

**As is the recurring theme in my Terry x Melanie fan fictions, this one was also inspired by some beautiful love melodies. As the title may suggest, one of those musical delights is "All I Ask of You", from Andrew Lloyd Weber's masterpiece **_**The Phantom of the Opera**_**. The other is "Written in the Stars" by Westlife. With both of these melodies as the driving force, these starcrossed lovers may finally put the past to rest and start looking toward the future.**

**As I said, I put considerable effort into this piece. Please be so kind as to leave me a review and share your thoughts. I only ask for your courtesy in that if this particular couple is not your cup of tea, do not flame me. I can give as good as I get, so please say something nice and/or constructively critical. Otherwise, don't say anything at all. Thank you in advance.**

**Title: All I Ask**

**Summary: "This," he breathes with another kiss to seal his vow, "is forever."**

**Character Pairing: Terry McGinnis/Batman x Melanie Walker**

**Rating: M for sexual content**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Batman Beyond or any affiliated characters. I own only the idea for this story.**

* * *

><p>"<em>We fit together so well…it's like pieces of a puzzle, the way your hand fits the curve of my hip and the way my head rests on your shoulder; the way our hands just melt into one, and the way I feel complete when I'm with you. It's like the picture is finally completed and I'll never have to wonder what I'm missing." ~ Author Unknown<em>

The night is a strange paradox. It is the time when light is replaced by thick shadows, broken only on rare occasion by the silver thrum of moonlight. Yet once the natural light of day has faded from the horizon, the city is ablaze with lights—neon and pulsating, inviting the citizens of Gotham to bask in the ultraviolet rays. Sounds resonate throughout the city, from the outskirts to the very heart of downtown—the electric beat of music from the local clubs, the raucous shouting and hollering of inebriated youth racing down the streets, and of course, the piercing wail of sirens breaking through the common ruckus, distinct above all else as the vehicles fly through the night, answering the call.

Tonight, as with many nights now, it is the sirens that catch her attention. Her eyes are drawn away from plaster-covered tabletops and assorted condiments, finding a blur of red and blue streaking past the restaurant windows. The attention of a few customers is grabbed by the sight, but they quickly return to the previous topics of conversation. People have become far too used to sirens in this city. They are as common an occurrence as birds in the sky.

Melanie sighs quietly, returning to her task of cleaning up after a particularly unsavory customer, one with the manners and common courtesy of a foul-tempered pig. His deplorable demeanor is one she simply puts out of mind; he is not the first of his kind, and he most assuredly will not be the last.

Instead, she allows herself to entertain a few memories—ones that are no longer at the forefront of her thoughts, yet are still not entirely forgotten. Memories of a time when she would have been the _cause_ of sirens blaring through the night, of uniformed officers leaping into their vehicles and rushing into action. Memories of a time when she lived in a constant state of adrenaline, always on the edge, always living with a euphoric rush pumping through her system. Memories of a time when _family_ was everything—a family she had always known to be dysfunctional, always known to be cold and unloving, and yet she had always been loyal.

Memories of a time when she was _Ten_—not Melanie Walker, a human being, but the final member of a criminal organization; not a daughter to be loved and cherished, but an accomplice to be discarded at the first sign of disloyalty.

Her hands are shaking as she sets the dishes down into the sink. She shakes her head, willing the tremors to disappear. It is not the first time since she has been forced to experience this sensation, and while she knows it will definitely not be the last, she wishes it would. She knows the consequences that would befall her should even one of her co-workers (or God forbid, her manager) think her control to be any less than intact.

Another hand, built with a broader palm and encased in warm skin, dry from repetitive contact with soap and hot water, wraps down around her wrist. Her eyes lift to find a pair of darker ones, visibly concerned as they survey her posture. She relaxes under his gaze, familiar with his concern. He has exhibited it frequently over the past few months—not entirely without good reason.

"You're looking a little too pale for my liking, sis." Jack murmurs, lifting a hand to the skin of her brow, carefully feeling her temperature. She offers a smile, trying to reassure him.

"I'm fine…really."

His brow lifts, always a clear sign of his doubt in her assurances. She knew her words would never fool him, and somehow she is strangely comforted by the fact that he always knows when she's lying to him—and more importantly, that he never lets her get away with it.

It's just like someone else she knows—someone she misses greatly tonight.

He moves for the dishes she just gave him, running them under the steady jet of heated water. His mind is not on the task at hand, but he won't have a manager pass by and call him out for it. Besides, multi-tasking is hardly a novel phenomenon for him—or her, for that matter.

"You're pacing again," he keeps his voice low, always mindful of wandering ears, "I can hear you in your room at night…small wonder you look like you haven't slept in weeks."

She sighs quietly, taking a scrapping tool in hand and proceeding to busy herself by removing leftover chunks from the plate. "I just can't seem to sleep lately, even when I try." She answers, not even bothering to remain casual about this. He would call her out in half a second.

A small smile quirks the left side of his mouth. "You mean when your nightly visitor doesn't stop by?"

She allows herself to smile in turn. A few weeks ago, she had been foolish enough to believe her secret was safe, but even then she should have known better. His perception was even more finely tuned than hers—a small benefit of being five years older. To think he would not have discovered his little sister's nightly secret was a foolish thought indeed.

Privately though, she also breathes a sigh of relief that he doesn't yet ask the identity of her "visitor". She has no doubt that he knows who is coming by her window at all hours of the night, but so long as he doesn't directly approach the subject, both can pretend he doesn't know her little secret. There are some things that, for now, are better left unsaid.

"He has nothing to do with anything." She replies quietly, still mindful to keep her voice down. "I'm just having a little trouble keeping my mind clear."

"Hmm,"

She hates when he does that. "It's true." Melanie insists, handing him another plate. A part of her wishes he would drop the subject. She knows he won't.

"Whenever you want to tell me the truth," he finally answers, lifting the plate from the suds and running it under the stream, "I'll be waiting. In the meantime," he adds, setting the dish aside and drying his hands, "I want you to go home. You've been here long enough."

"I'm supposed to close toni—"

His finger pressed down on her lips, gentle but firm (as always). His expression is similar to his touch, playful yet still insistent, "Don't," he taps her lips with the pad of his finger, "argue with your big brother." His finger moves to tap her brow, "Now go home."

She grants him a kiss on the cheek before making her exit, silent and unnoticed. She will not admit it—not to him, and perhaps not even fully to herself—but she is glad to be sent home tonight. The midnight hour is steadily approaching, and tonight is one night she cannot be without company—_his_ company.

* * *

><p>Noise, noise, noise—by God, could there possibly be any more <em>noise<em> tonight?

Terry pushes the absurdity of his question away, clearing his thoughts for the attention and focus that is necessary to do his job tonight. For all intents and purposes, the night should not have required such attention—at least, not _this_ kind of attention. It had started out quiet, at first promising an early retirement. And for a few fleeting moments, he had enjoyed the prospect of earning some much-needed time off.

But nothing lasts forever—a night of peace and quiet _never_ lasts forever, not in this city.

He cringes as another symphony of metal-on-metal strikes the barricade of crates and pillars behind which he took shelter moments ago, narrowly avoiding a bullet to the chest in the process. Since then, there has been a ceaseless onslaught of bullets, consistently denting the metal and sending numerous vibrations thrumming through his skull. And if even one of the bullets make it through (or around) the barrier, the suit definitely won't protect him. It's an unfortunate consequence of dealing with a break-in at a high-tech security plant. The plant's main product? Special grade, armor-piercing bullets.

This must be his lucky night.

A sudden explosion of sound interrupts his thoughts (fleeting as they were), and heat suddenly floods the area—unnervingly swift and sure. Already knowing he will regret doing so, Terry turns his head to look around the nearest corner he can find. A highly unwelcome sight greets him—a previously simple gas leak has managed to catch one of the many sparks flying from the guns. An inferno is moments away—once the smoldering leak finds its way back to the original source of gasoline, the entire plant will go up in flames.

Apparently, the dregs do not share his concern about becoming participants in a human barbeque.

"Come out, come out wherever you are, little bat…" their voices are taunting, demeaning. It's nothing he isn't used to. Yet it still manages to grate his nerves every single time.

His eyes search frantically for the closest exit—a window, a door, anything—knowing all-too well that he will need to utilize it when that gasoline leak erupts. After a brief search, he finds something—an open window several feet above his head. He'll need to use the jets in his boots to make the jump, but at least he'll be able to escape, hopefully intact.

The shadows draw closer, dark against the flickering orange light behind them. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep, calming breath. _Focus_—he must focus—_Deliberation_—his attack must be swift and sure, without mistake—_Aim_—he must not miss, not when they are far better armed than he is.

His eyes open. And he makes his move.

Two of them fall with a well-delivered strike from his arm. The other two immediately prepare to aim, but he already expected it—and prepared for it. A metal two-by-four takes care of the third, leaving him slumped on the concrete. Finally, there is only one left—a far more manageable situation than dealing with four all at once.

The first bullet out of the gun misses his shoulder by a matter of inches, maybe even centimeters. He grabs the man's wrist, grappling for the gun in a highly unpleasant battle of wills. This has already become (once again) an undesirable set of circumstances. Common sense, let alone his gained experience in these matters, is quick to inform him of the dangers involved when struggling for a loaded weapon. One wrong move—such as a finger slipping around the trigger—and he could just as easily be him going down instead of the dreg.

He manages to deliver a direct blow to the inner thigh, striking the underlying artery with impressive precision. The gun falls into his hands as its previous owner collapses to the floor, crippled by the blow. Yet his hands are still functional, and rather than risk him getting the upper hand, Terry is quick to deliver a blow to his throat—only enough pressure to render him unconscious, nothing more.

He can feel the heat intensify at an alarming rate, and he knows it will not be long now. His hands move quickly, dragging the quartet over towards the door. Outside, he can hear the sirens approaching, and the sound is highly welcoming. All the same, he knows he needs to leave before they get there—he would rather not catch the commissioner in a bad mood tonight.

They are left outside the door, where their retrieval will be easiest and avoids putting any officer in danger of the blaze. Satisfied with his work, he makes for the window, all-too aware that he is racing against the clock before—

First, he hears the unmistakable sound of metal canisters—all of them overflowing with gasoline—combusting under the intense heat. Then, he feels the heat crash into him like a full-blown tidal wave.

He sees the window approaching far faster than it should, his body propelled forward by the sheer intensity of the explosion, and shielding his head is the only hope for survival.

The impact is immediate and undeniably painful. Glass cuts through the suit, and though the second layer—stronger and more durable than the first—protects most of his skin from damage, it cannot save him entirely. His jaw clenches instinctively as particularly thick shards heated to white-hot temperatures slice clean through, grating across his upper arms and chest. The explosion itself proceeds to inflict further damage, sending him clean into the brick foundations of the nearby alley wall. He releases a pained groan, unable to resist it as the bruises immediately coat his shoulders and mid-back. Inanely, he is grateful for being thrown against the wall in a horizontal position—it might be the only thing that will save him from a concussion (or worse).

His attempts to lower himself gracefully to the ground fail, with his reflexes shattered by the multiple blows. The fall to the asphalt is predictably painful, though compared with his other injuries, it's tolerable. Shaking, he half-drags himself to the dark reaches of the alley, shielding himself from the gathering crowd and, more importantly, the police. If he could afford it, he would simply remain here until some semblance of strength returned to him. Yet he knows he cannot. The police are too thorough with their investigations, and he will be discovered sooner than later. The last thing he needs is the commissioner lecturing him about interfering with police investigations…again.

He makes to stand, but his legs are barely willing to comply with his needs. At least he can get on his knees. If nothing else, perhaps he can crawl a little of the way.

Suddenly, there are two arms around his chest, their hold firm but mindful of his injuries. His initial reaction, brought on by pure instinct, tells him to fight and break away. The arms will not release him, and then there is a voice in his ear, tone soft and gentle. "Relax, Terry…it's alright."

Exhaustion steadily seeps into his limbs, and he slumps against her chest. His hand reaches for the mask, pulling it away from his face to gulp down the air—smoky or not, it's still air. His head comes to rest against her shoulder, drawing in the sweet scent of her platinum hair—lilacs, from her shampoo. "What…are you doing here?" he manages to whisper, privately amazed he can make coherent conversation right now.

She kisses his brow, fingers running through sweat-soaked hair. "An explosion in the middle of downtown attracts attention, you know." her voice is light and teasing. He can feel her lips smiling against his skin, and in spite of everything he cannot help but smile in turn.

"You shouldn't be here." He whispers, trying to sit upright. "It's too dangerous."

"Says the man who just got thrown through a window." She answers. He can't see her roll her eyes, but he has no trouble imagining it. Her arms slip around him—one around the waist, the other around his shoulders—as she helps him stand. Were it any other night, he might try to play the gentleman and not let all his weight lean against her. Tonight, he cannot help but rest against her. Somehow he knows she won't mind.

"Come on," she murmurs, already moving down the way, "Just leave the walking to me."

* * *

><p>The note taped to the refrigerator informs both of them that the house will be vacant tonight—<em>Terry, We'll be at Grandma's for the weekend. Call if you need anything<em>. When the weekend ends, he knows he will be the proud recipient of a half-hour lecture (maybe longer, depending on whether or not he makes the mistake of answering Mom's rhetorical questions) about spending more time with family and not letting himself get caught up in his work like he was saving the world or something.

They really don't know the half of it.

He winces again (for the fifteenth time in the last forty-five minutes) as Melanie carefully applies alcohol to his open cuts. His threshold for pain should be much higher by now, considering just how many wounds he has endured over the last two years (he has plenty of scars to prove it). No doubt, he is simply suffering the additional injury of being thrown into a solid brick wall—pain tends to throw the nerves into hypersensitivity.

She is gentle and careful with him, and he finds himself wondering how many scars she has endured over the years…and how many of them she has had to heal by herself, without the assistance of her parents—a term he uses _very_ loosely. The concentration apparent on her face brings a smile to his. For once, it's rather pleasant to not have to treat his injuries without looking over his shoulder every five minutes, worried his mother or little brother will suddenly come barging in on him.

Tonight, they are finally alone—completely alone. The idea sends rather pleasant warmth through his nerves, especially with her slender hands paying such careful and deliberate attention to the naked skin of his chest.

Yet there is something bothering him, something slightly _off_ about her behavior tonight. She has never remained so quiet, at least not for this long when they are together. And her eye contact with him has been minimal.

"Melanie," his hand reaches out to cup her chin, bringing her face up to meet his, "What's wrong?"

She blinks, but almost immediately looks away. "It's nothing…really." Her hands move to put the bandages away, but he stops her. Her attempts to divert the conversation won't work tonight.

"Don't lie to me." His voice is soft, but the demand for the truth is clear and present. "Something is bothering you, and I want to know what it is. Tell me, Melanie…please."

Her eyes refuse to meet his, staring off instead at the far wall. His frown deepens as he moves closer to her. "Melanie, please," he whispers again, "Don't you trust me?"

* * *

><p>"<em>Don't you trust me?"<em>

He asks the question as though the answer is so simple, as though there is no other answer to give but "Yes"—_yes, I do. Yes, I always have and always will. Yes, I trust you. I do. I do._

Yet the answer is not so simple. She wishes it were, and it could be. She could lie to him, tell him everything is fine and never bother him with her fears and concerns ever again. They have no place in this relationship.

But she cannot lie. She cannot even _pretend_ it would be easy to lie to him now, not when they are so close together and he can see her expression so clearly—she knows he can read her as easily as he could read a book. She has never been able to lie to him, though not for lack of trying.

Oh yes, she has tried…she has tried to lie to him so many, many times. And every single time, she has failed completely and utterly. He knows her so well, too well—knows her better than anyone else in the world, save perhaps her brother. But even then, Jack does not know her in the same way. He comes from the same family and knows her frustrations as sure as he knows his own. She could tell him how lost she feels, how empty and lifeless she has become in these past few months, how confused she is…she could tell him all of these things and he would accept them. He would accept them and leave it at that.

But Terry is different. He has always been different and she knows that about him—she _loves_ that about him. She loves him, loves him more than she has ever loved anything or anyone in her life. But she is afraid to trust him, and that is what makes her that coward that she is. She has asked for his trust, asked for his secrets and his open heart, yet she fears to return them in full. There is ugliness within her, lying just beneath the surface, just beneath her venire of beauty and charm and wit. Truly, beauty is only skin deep, and she knows it. What lies within her is a distorted, mutilated mess—a poison that could infect him if he gets too close.

She does not want him to expose her ugliness. She does not want to contaminate him.

Shaking, Melanie slowly stands, leaving him on the couch while she moves toward the window, nearly as though in a trance. She feels tears pricking at the mere corners of both eyes, and she will not allow them to fall. Her tears are only further evidence of her distortion. They symbolize her weakness and expose it without regard or consideration. If she allows herself to cry, she can never again pretend to be the charming beauty that stole his heart. She is but a hollowed shell, a ghostly reminder of what she once was—before life stole the innocence of her youth—and even what she might have been, had she and Terry met sooner. Had their paths crossed many a year earlier, she might have been saved then. She might have had a chance for redemption. But not now. There is no chance for her to be saved now.

"I'm slipping." She whispers, the tender skin of her palms pressing down into the sharp ledge. "I thought I could do this…thought it would be so easy to just get a normal life and forget everything. But…" she swallows back the catch in her voice, willing the tears to be contained a little longer, "I don't think I can do this anymore."

The silence that follows isn't just suffocating. It is _agonizing_ even when it is the kind of reaction she knew he was perfectly entitled to have, the kind of answer she should have—did—expect from him, but none of the expectation makes anything less painful. She isn't good for him—he deserves so much better than to be tied down to a thief…a con who wasn't grateful enough for—

His hands come down to rest on her shoulders, large and warm and broad as always, and she could have wept with relief. But she did not, would not, could not cry. If he sees her tears…

His lips kiss her temple, a warm exhale of breath brushing through her hair. "You've come so far, Melanie…come so far and done so much. Why would you question yourself now?"

Her eyes close, an involuntary reaction that nearly destroyed her resolve. Yet still she manages to hold on, to force those hated tears back a little while longer. How much longer she could do so, however, was anyone's guess.

"I just…I can't, Terry. I wasn't born to live a normal life." Her fingers clutch at the ledge, the cold metal threatening to cut into her flesh. "I was born to steal, to con everyone and everything…to thrive purely on adrenaline and the rush that always came with each steal."

Crystal blue eyes are now all for the dark horizon, staring deliberately out the window just so she will never have to face him, or see anything that might draw her attention back to him. She will break if she looks into those grey-blue eyes—eyes that see her in ways no one else has ever, and will ever, be able to see her.

"I enjoyed the rush, Terry. I _lived_ for it. Every single time I put that costume on…my blood began flowing in ways you couldn't possibly imagine. I felt alive…like I was invincible. Nothing and no one could ever stop me—or any of us." The brief spark of light that had appeared in her eyes dies quickly, "But for every high…there's always a low. And mine came when I was back in my room, left alone with only my thoughts…my conscience. And I knew what I had done was wrong. I knew I had hurt people. It made me so angry, so frustrated to know what I had done, but the next time Dad—King told me to get ready, I did. I put that costume back on again, and I hurt more people because I got that rush."

His cheek is still pressed against her, and she feels him nod at her words. After a brief moment of silence, he finally speaks. "Then why did you stop? Why did you finally make the decision to leave it all behind, knowing it would never be easy?"

He knows the answer—he _must_ know the answer, but she will give it anyway. She owes it to him, at the very least. "Because I met you." She whispers, shaking slightly, "I met you, and everything suddenly made sense. But then I left you because of my loyalty to that damn rush, not just once but twice. And when I lost you that second time…I realized I just couldn't do it anymore. But by then…it was too late."

"No, it wasn't." he says quietly, tightening his hold on her. "It wasn't too late, Melanie…we're here together. We're here now."

"And would you still stay with me," she cannot look at him, and yet she longs to stare into his eyes until she drowns in their depths, "knowing what you do now? Knowing that I can't be satisfied with what I've got, you would stay? Would you risk that I won't hurt you again and again until we're both broken beyond repair?"

His hands gently turn her around, and though she stands before him, still she cannot lift her eyes to meet his. But it doesn't stop him from continuing. "When this all began," his voice is wonderfully soft in her ears, warm and soothing, "we knew there would be one hell of a price to pay. There will always be some kind of cost involved, Melanie…and I'm willing to pay it. I'll take it all—work through the pain, grit my teeth and get back up again as many times as I have to. But I'll only do it if you'll be right there beside me. Otherwise…there's no point to getting back on my feet."

She can't quite resist the small smile that twitches her mouth. "You're putting me up on a pedestal, Terry. Don't you know it's a long way down from the top?"

He kisses her forehead, and she can feel his smile against her skin. God, how she loves making him smile, even when she knows he deserves so much better than her.

"Then it's a good thing I'll always catch you, isn't it?"

Her eyes close, all senses wholly devoted to absorbing his warmth, his scent, his presence—everything and anything that reminds her of one simple fact: he is here and he will not leave her, even when it would be in his best interests to do so.

"Always…?" she whispers, trembling slightly as his embrace draws her closer, enveloping her in sweet comfort.

"Always," he answers, fingers idly combing through platinum waves, "But I have a favor to ask."

Instinctively, her body stiffens in anticipation. She nods, allowing him to continue and ask his favors, but she dreads it. _Favors_ plague her memories, forcing her to commit acts without her full consent, to make promises she would rather not keep, and above all, they imprisoned her to a life without love or compassion, and without any chance for escape.

Terry's kiss interrupts such ugly thoughts, rendering her both speechless and breathless even after he pulls away from her brow. All at once she feels guilt for not returning the kiss, but the look in his eyes is understanding and accepting. Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, and while she would otherwise say something, she can only wait for him to continue.

"I need you to trust me." He speaks softly but deliberately, holding her face in his hands with such tenderness that she could weep from the feel of it, "I need you to trust that I will never let anything or anyone hurt you ever again. Believe that I will always be with you, always be there to listen to your fears and worries without ever judging you, and I'll always return your words with my own, so long as you want to hear them. Trust that I will be there to guard you and hide you when you're not strong enough to stand on your own, and I'll never think poorly of you for it."

Another kiss falls to her eyelid, the tips of her feathery lashes brushing up under his jaw. "Trust me to lead you out of your solitude and give you a new life, a life where you can hope and dream and desire for anything and everything. I know I can't give you all the money and jewels you deserve, but I'll try…and I ask for that to be enough. Let my love be enough even when you deserve so much more…let _me_ be enough, even when I'm not strong enough or worthy of being beside you."

She returns his kiss just below his jaw, smiling slightly when he offers a contented sigh in response. "You ask so little of me…so little when I would ask so much."

"Nothing you ask will be too much, Melanie." He offers his words as a promise, and this time she believes and accepts it without hesitation.

"I ask for freedom," she whispers, savoring this closeness and the protection it offers her, "I ask that you promise me truth in everything you say and do, that you will never deceive me even when you think it's for my own protection. I ask that you trust me to be strong for you when you aren't. Promise that you'll love me in spite of my flaws, that nothing I say or do will separate us ever again. Let me be weak when I need it and still know that your arms will always be there to carry me away. Let me show you my tears and my weakness without regret, knowing you'll accept them as a part of me and you'll still love me in spite of them."

She can feel tears slicking across her lower lid, and for the first time she does not care if they fall. "Trust me to protect you as you have protected me, and don't ever let yourself think that I'm too weak or fragile to be your shield and protection when you need it. Say that you _need_ me beside you every day and every night, and trust that if and when you say the word, I'll always follow you no matter the sacrifice involved."

His hands tilt her face up, their noses lightly brushing against each other. She longs to kiss him, but waits just a little while longer. "Let my love be enough for you, even knowing you deserve much, much more." Her voice catches slightly, but she remains strong, "Love me as I am, for all that I am, and never stop loving me…no matter what."

Her eyes slowly open, and his smile greets her almost immediately. "Is that all?" his tone is part serious, part teasing.

"No," she answers after a short pause, "There's one more thing…"

Her hands rest on his chest, and she can feel his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. It beat in time with hers—two drums pulsing to the same beat, always following the same tune. She felt as though she could melt against his body and simply seep down into his cells, immersing herself into his body down to the very core of his being—to be one with him in the purest, truest sense imaginable.

"Say you love me…" her voice is breathless, excitement flooding her senses as she finally comprehends the close proximity of their bodies. She knows what her body craves, what her heart desires, and she can only offer a silent prayer that his desires are one with hers, "Say you love me…that you will always love me no matter what. Love me and never let me go again."

He offers no words for an answer, and she does not need them. His answer comes in his kiss, and it speaks more than mere words could ever hope to say.

He pulls her tightly against his chest, arms wrapping around her as their lips are crushed together in the deepest kiss either could have possibly imagined giving or receiving. It is a kiss overflowing with desperate pleas that can never be fully explained, testifying to physical desires that, left unattended even after their reconciliation, have now reached and broken all levels of endurance. It is a kiss that can never fully repent for the past but begs and promises for a future…together.

The sound that escapes her mouth at the initial contact was one of surprise, but now a softer sound—a moan of pleasure, not discomfort—slips past her soft lips to echo against his. Her fingers curl against the slick fabric of his suit to close the distance between them. Both know this kiss and remember this embrace—remember it now as though it only a few short days ago, not an entire lifetime, that both had been under the rainfall. So much has changed for them since, and much is still to change. But just as it had been a year ago, none of it matters now. There is nothing in this moment but Terry McGinnis and Melanie Walker, alone once more in each other's embrace.

His arm slips around her waist, carefully tucking her against his chest. He prays she can feel his heartbeat, hear and feel the life pounding through him. It always beat before now, always kept him moving and breathing, but he never feels as alive as he does when holding her, and she him. Never does he feel so confident and yet unsure all at once, never so filled with desire and all other nameless emotions. Never is he as safe and whole…as complete as he is with her and only her.

Once again, tonight, his heart beats for—and only because of—her.

A sharp thrill runs through him when he feels those graceful, slender hands moving up to the back of his neck. Two or three fingers shift into the dark strands of hair, still damp from perspiration, and he inanely realizes just how cold he has felt throughout this night, just how much he needs to be infected and consumed by her warmth.

Reluctantly obeying the pressing need for air, both slowly break the kiss. He finds himself rather fascinated at the sight pressed up against his wall (he can't quite recall how or when they ended up here): the softest pink flush spread across her cheeks, her lips full, almost swollen from the intensity of their kiss, and the distinct fog clouding those normally sharp and vibrant pools of blue. Platinum strands of hair fall loose across her neck and shoulders, mussed and teased by his wandering hands.

"Terry…" she whispers, chest rising and falling slowly with the hard and deliberate breaths escaping her lungs.

His hand cups her face, thumb stroking along the soft curve of her jaw slowly but deliberately. She trembles slightly at the touch, almost shrinking away from him as ugly memories slink to the surface. He can see the fear blossoming in her eyes, and all at once he knows what must be done.

His other hand comes up, cupping her shoulder to carefully draw her back to him. "Don't be afraid, Melanie." He murmurs, the hand on her face moving to stroke through her hair and down her neck with a tender caress that she has never known before in her life. The tone of his voice, the touch of his hands, the warmth of his body radiating into hers…it is intoxicating—if only it were enough to quell and calm her fears, those old insecurities that are never truly gone from memory.

"I…I'm…" the words fall dead on her tongue, useless and empty. She wants to apologize for her hesitation and fear, especially now that she has promised to trust him with her weakness. But the words will not come, and she bows her head in shame, only to have his hand cup her chin and tilt her face back up.

His thumb strokes across her lower lip, careful. "Don't be afraid." He repeats. "Not now…not ever again. Just remember that I love you, and let that be enough."

Her eyes search his for near an eternity, the silence passing over them heavy—nearly unbearably so, really. But finally, she seems to find the answers for which she has searched moved, as she moves forward to kiss him again, deeper than before. Her answer is apparent in her kiss—she trusts him, trusts and believes in his love. And it is enough.

Warmth spreads through him as slender hands slide down to his waist, fingering the hem of his shirt carefully, almost hesitantly. A soft moan slips out, lost in the shared heat of their kiss, and her hands grow persistent, sliding beneath the cloth with a low sigh as she can finally touch him this way and have her advances accepted wholeheartedly.

The dark material bunches and wrinkles as she moves her hands up his body, the warmth of her touch spreading slowly through him like infectious fire. And when he lifts his arms, slowly breaking the kiss to allow his shirt to be pulled over his head, he does not hesitate or reconsider his actions. His heart knows what it wants, and even a brief glimpse into her eyes tells him that she knows his desires—knows them and shares them.

Leaving her waist for a moment, his hands move to trace along the hem of her shirt. He is careful, gentle and deliberately slow. She has to know this was special, that this is different—_he_ is different. And he will not go any further until she gives him permission.

She seems to understand; he can see it in the softness that comes to her eyes, replacing the shadows of lust for a moment with understanding, and more importantly, of longing. Her fingers wrap around the both of his hands, calmly guiding them beneath her shirt in complete silence, save for the quiet sigh she releases as he finally touches her bare skin. Her eyes close as the garment is drawn over her head. It falls limply from his fingers without a second thought.

Sweet God, how long has he wondered, let alone _desired_? Finally, he is permitted to see her skin—so pale, as though it would be cold, but full of life and warmth—in the dim, flickering lights of the city that seep through the windows. A plane of flawless skin, bare except for the black fabric wrapped around her chest, a nearly chaste item if not for the swell of her breasts that remain exposed, rising and falling delicately with each breath she takes.

Her eyes are still closed, and he touches her cheek with one hand, kissing her forehead with soft tenderness. "Open your eyes."

She obeys, but she can see herself in his eyes, and the fear returns with a vengeance. Too many times was she forced to observe herself in the ravenous gaze of other men, all of them desiring her body for a few short hours of one-sided passion, only to leave her without care or regard. She knows his gaze is different, that his eyes are gentle and loving, and perhaps the tenderness is what frightens her the most—this alien affection to which she is completely unaccustomed. She wants to learn, wants to embrace his love and be embraced by it, and yet her fear is still there to hold her at bay even as she longs for freedom.

"Don't do that, Melanie…" Terry's voice is suddenly in her ear, warm and gentle as always, "There is nothing for you to hide from. You shouldn't be ashamed of what you see…you're beautiful."

"I know, Terry…I know." she whispers, her voice low and dull—lifeless, "I know I'm sexy and attractive and—"

He stops her with a soft touch to her lips, firm and yet still comforting. "No, Melanie." His voice is as firm as his touch, demanding only that she _listen_ to what he was saying. "I didn't say—nor did I _mean_—you are just sexy or sexually attractive or physically appealing to men."

His mouth moves to gently kiss her temple, and she can't stop the gasp that escapes her. "I said you are _beautiful_. You are determined and vibrant. You aren't perfect and you know your faults, your weaknesses, your failings…you know them and you accept all of them. And that makes you stronger, much stronger than the people you measure yourself against. You know your fears and yet you still face them everyday because you are not willing to let them conquer you. Every obstacle you face, every struggle you endured, and every battle you have fought is proof that you are a survivor, that you are better than your parents and have risen above your old life eve when they told you it couldn't be done."

His mouth lowers to her ear again, his words barely a breath against her skin, "And that makes you beautiful…more beautiful than any other woman I have ever met."

After what seems an eternity of silence, her eyes lift to his. Her face is streaked with tears, but still her eyes are bright, and as she gazes at him, her lips slowly turn up in a smile—it is small and even a bit frightened, but it was still there. And when she speaks, her voice is stronger, more sure of herself…confident that she can truly overcome her fear, just as he believes she can.

"I should have known it was you…should have known long before you told me." she whispers, hands on his chest, over his heart, "Batman and Terry McGinnis were the only two men in my life who never gave up on me."

His hand lifted to touch her face, thumb carefully stroking over her lips. "And I never will. I promise you that."

Her fingers clutch at his shoulders, the heat meshing between their bodies. "Say it…please." Her voice is barely audible, but she does not need to speak loudly for him to hear her.

"I love you," he whispers, and she gasps as his mouth descends to her throat, pressing heated kisses along the pale column until she is left shivering in his arms, "I have always loved you. And I will always love you, now and forever."

"Forever…" she can barely retain coherent speech and thought with his mouth leaving heated paths along her exposed flesh, down to the obstructing waist of her skirt, "Oh God…Terry, please…promise me forever?"

He chooses not to reply with words, instead allowing actions to speak for him. His lips lay purchase along the soft planes of her skin, leaving no inch untouched while his fingers negotiate with the clasp of her skirt. Finally, with a well-placed tug and some mutual squirming on her part, the garment slides down her legs to be left without further consideration.

Her fingers shake as they run down the slope of his chest, feeling out every muscled crevice, caressing every scar with reverence and respect, all while absorbing the sweet heat of his body. The chill she felt earlier has no place here, and as he pulls her flush against him, she can hardly believe she ever felt cold when she has his presence to warm her.

Finally, her hands find the waist of his pants and she briefly savors the slick material before peeling it from his hips. Slow and methodical, she draws the fabric down his legs, lowering herself to kneel before him as she does so. The last pieces of his suit are soon discarded and her lips press to his waist, purposefully caressing the remnants of a scar before moving down to his hips and thighs, seeking out every single injury—fading or healing, past or recent. She wants to accept all of them, express her marvel and desire both for their presence and what they represent—his strength and courage, his devotion and bravery to a city that doesn't deserve all that he willingly sacrifices for it and its citizens.

But tonight at least, she is the only citizen to hold his attention. He will think of no other until the break of dawn draws them away from this bliss, forcefully dragging them back into the harsh reality of their normal lives—if either one of them truly leads a _normal_ life.

"Melanie," the harsh gasp wrapped around her name brings attention back to his face, and she smiles at the poorly disguised urgency in his eyes. Unwilling to waste time, she only graces him with another smile, this one holding darker, lustful undertones as she lays teasing kisses along the evidence of his desire. His soft groans only encourage her onward, and it is only moments later that the slick heat of her tongue replaces her lips.

Again Terry groans, hands clutching whatever support is nearest—presently, the cold ledge of his desk. His teeth clench in the attempt to contain his needy gasps and moans, trying to preserve some idea of modesty while her ceaseless ministrations drive him completely wild.

"_Melanie_…" his knuckles whiten under the intensity of his hold, longing to pull her back to his lips all while completely unable to stop her. Disregarding any need for coherent speech, he brings both hands to his hips and clasp both of hers. He forces himself to let the small contact be enough while he momentarily surrenders control. It will simply have to suffice until he can again touch her and not lose a single one of these offered sensations.

Her touches flirt between mere teasing and deliberate caress, testing every nerve in such a sensitive part of his anatomy to learn how and where to touch her lover. It is a temptation to bring him to release and watch him surrender completely, but she instead draws away, not quite content for this to finish so soon. The moment she releases him, her hands are fully captured in his, guiding her to an upright position before he claims her lips. She moans appreciatively, wrapping both arms around him to close any remaining space between their bodies.

His hands freely explore her soft curves, savoring the silken touch of her skin just as he relishes the taste of her kiss. Her beauty is evident even when his eyes are not presently available to behold it—it radiates in every shift of her body, every breathless moan from her lips, and every tremble of her flesh under his hungry touch. Fingertips slip along the hem of the black strip of cotton still determinedly attached to her hips, and without resistance on her part the item is quickly removed. She shivers slightly from the chilled air slipping in through the open window, but cold night winds are soon forgotten as her bared skin meets the cotton of his sheets. Her hair spills out along his bedcovers, eyes set against his in a silent gesture…and an unspoken longing.

"Please," she whispers, arms lifting for him in a gesture so innocent that it makes his heart ache with the need to hold her and never release her again. Their lips meet yet again as his fingers carefully explore her heated core, drawing out soft moans and breathless whimpers that thrill him to the core. She is unbearably beautiful…so desperate and craving the slightest touch as though it were some rare treasure to behold.

How did he ever live a day without her, let alone a full year?

Her nails contract against his skin as he finally makes their union complete, a low moan expelling from her lips that somehow, someway resembles his name. She feels unbearably warm, the feel of him inside her and against her sending white-hot flames through every vein; each thrust of his body is at first careful, as though he fears she may break apart in his arms. Again, even in the heat of passion, his tenderness reigns supreme and keeps him from fully succumbing to carnal desires. It is through these simple caresses that she can see his love even more clearly than she can hear it in his words. Words can be distorted and manipulated into lies; it is through actions that one can see the truth.

And his actions always speak the truth…always.

Movements become faster, more frantic and desperate to reach the pleasure needed and craved by body and mind alike. Her eyes gaze out at a starlit sky, only barely seeing the splendor of a thousand tiny diamonds tossed throughout an inky canvas when her attention is so completely stolen by his lips on her neck, his hands caressing the curves of her body, and the rhythmic thrust of his hips driving him deeper and deeper into the velvet heat of her body. Nothing else can possibly exist in this moment, save for the two of them…together.

"I love you," he whispers with lips pressed against hers, kissing and yet devoting more attention to the message passing on the soft breaths exchanged between two eager mouths, "I love you, Melanie…my Queen."

Tears slick along her inner lids, with a few spilling forth across her eyelashes and trickling down her cheeks. But these tears were not of grief but joy and relief. For the first time, to be addressed by that title made her feel as though she was not only worthy of it, but she actually wanted to own it. She wanted to be a Queen—_his_ Queen.

Her lips return the kisses without hesitation, fingers coming to lace with his and draw both hands beside her head, trapping herself fully beneath his strong figure. She is safe here…safe and protected and loved as it was always meant to be.

Her release overwhelms her without any warning, ripping through her system and setting every nerve on fire. Pleasure consumes her, body and mind and soul, leaving nothing left of her but him—his love and his strength, all of it empowering her soul little by little. And it will continue to bring life into her heart and soul until she is worthy of being his Queen, a woman to stand at his side and fight his battles with him until each and every enemy is defeated.

She smiles as his pleasure swiftly follows, muffled against her throat in a wordless shout that thrums across her tingling flesh. His body pulses with release as he loses himself completely inside her beautiful body without any concern for the consequences that may or may not follow. This time he does not fear the results of his actions, only embraces them fully. These actions promise a future with her at his side and in his arms…just as it should be.

* * *

><p>The night drags by as though suspended, granting the lovers all the time they could possibly desire before dawn breaks the bliss and brings them both back into the grip of reality. And yet for the first time, reality does not seem nearly as bleak. For the first time, he might actually be happy to face the daylight if it means waking up in her arms, instead of living in a short-lived dream that always ends with his departure.<p>

Suddenly, the silence is broken by a loudly distinct buzzing emitting from the nightstand. For a minute he ignores it, but after one moment proves one too many for ignorance to reign successfully, he turns over and brings the device to eyes that are only half-awake. A firm blink clears his vision enough to decipher the caller ID gleaming out in green letters. He sighs, holding the phone in a tight grip for a long moment before returning it to the nightstand, this time tucked away in a drawer where the noise won't bother either of them again.

"Sorry, Bruce…" he murmurs, "Not tonight."

A slender hand set down on his shoulder, and the sounds of a body shifting beneath the sheets greets his ears before he turns to meet her blue eyes. "Do you have to go…?" she whispers, both fearing the answer while simultaneously expecting it.

His lips set another kiss to hers, smiling quietly as he envelops her in his embrace and draws her close, "The city can live without Batman for one night, Melanie. Tonight…tonight belongs to us."

She smiles and melts once more into his arms with hers around the strong frame of his chest and shoulders. Their lips meet yet again and exhaustion is forgotten in the wake of renewed desire. Soft moans escape as his kisses trail down to the valley of her breasts. He lingers there for a moment before bringing his gaze back to meet hers. Silence follows only for a fleeting period, and then he cups her face between tender palms and rests his brow to hers.

"This," he breathes with another kiss to seal his vow, "is forever."


End file.
